irst, and then soothed, as the voice of
Hamish rose in prayer. It was no vague, formal utterance addressed to a
God far away and incomprehensible. He was pleading with a Brother close
at hand--a dear and loving elder Brother--for their brothers far away.
He did not plead as one who feared denial, but trustfully, joyfully,
seeking first that God's will might be done in them and theirs. Hamish
was not afraid; nothing could be plainer than that. So the two Shenacs
took a little comfort, and waited and trusted still.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

And so they waited. For a few days it did not seem impossible to Shenac
that Allister might come; and she watched each hour of the day and
night, starting and trembling at every sound. But he did not come, and
in a little while Hamish broke the tidings to his mother, how they had
heard that Allister was to have sailed on a certain day, but his Cousin
Evan having been taken ill, they were to wait for another ship; but they
would be sure to come soon.

Happily, the mother's mind rested more on having heard that her son was
well, and was coming some time, than on his being delayed; and she was
better after that. She fell back for a little time into her old ways,
moving about the house, and even betaking herself to the neglected
flax-spinning. But she was very feeble, going to bed early, and rising
late, and requiring many an affectionate stratagem on the part of her
children to keep her from falling into invalid ways.

It was a sad and weary waiting to them all, but to none more than to
Angus Dhu. If he had heard of his son's death, it would not have been
so terrible to him as the suspense which he often told himself need not
be suspense. There was no hope, there could be none, after the words
written by his son's trembling hands. He grew an old, feeble man in the
short space between the harvest and the new year. The grief which had
fallen on all the family when Evan's letter came gave way before the
anxiety with which they all saw the change in him. His wife was a
quiet, gentle woman, saying little at any time, perhaps feeling less
than her stern husband. They all sorrowed, but it was on the father
that the blight fell heaviest.

It was a fine Sabbath morning in October. It was mild, and not very
bright, and the air was motionless. It was just like an Indian-summer
day, only the Indian summer is supposed to come in November, after some
snow has fallen on brown leaves a